He began by drinking a glass of beer in a bar, not because he was thirsty but through a kind of superstition, because he had always had a beer before beginning any difficult interrogation or even during the questioning itself.
He remembered the large beers Joseph, the waiter at the Brasserie Dauphine, used to bring up to his office at Quai des Orfèvres, for him and often as well for the poor, wan fellow facing him, awaiting his questions with the near certainty of leaving that office in handcuffs.
Why, that evening, was he thinking of the longest, the most difficult of all those interrogations, the one considered almost classic in the annals of the Police Judiciaire, the interview with Mestorino, which had gone on for no less than twenty-six hours?
When it was over, the air was unbreathable, the office choked with pipe smoke and littered with ashes, empty glasses and the remains of sandwiches. The two men had removed their jackets and ties and their faces were so exhausted that anyone not knowing beforehand would have had trouble telling which one was the murderer.
Shortly before midnight, Maigret called the St Regis from a phone booth and asked for Little John’s apartment.
It was MacGill’s voice he recognized on the line.
‘Hello … It’s Maigret … I would like to speak to Mr Maura.’
Did something in his voice make clear that the time for playing cat and mouse was over? The secretary simply replied, without elaborating, with evident sincerity, that Little John was attending an event at the Waldorf and would probably not be back before two in the morning.
‘Would you telephone him or, even better, go and meet him?’ asked Maigret.
‘I’m not alone here. I have a lady friend at the apartment and …’
‘Send her home and do as I tell you. It is absolutely necessary, you hear me – it is essential, if you prefer – that you and Little John be in my room at the Berwick at ten minutes to one at the latest. At the latest, I insist … No, it is not possible to meet somewhere else. If Little John is reluctant, tell him that I want him to be present at a conversation with someone he knew a long time ago … No, I’m sorry, I can’t say anything more at present. Ten minutes to one.’
He had arranged for a call to La Bourboule at one o’clock and had some time left before then. At that same tranquil pace, pipe between his teeth, he made for the Donkey Bar, which was crowded but where, to his great disappointment, he did not see Parson.
He drank another beer anyway, and that was when he noticed a small back room at the far end of the bar. He went over there. Two lovers in one corner. In another, on the black leather banquette, the journalist slumped, legs sprawled, staring vacantly at a tipped-over glass.
Although he recognized the inspector, he did not bother to move.
‘Can you still hear me, Parson?’ grumbled Maigret, planting himself in front of the man with perhaps as much pity as contempt.
Stirring only slightly, the other stammered in English, ‘How do you do?’
‘This afternoon, you spoke about conducting a sensational interview with me, didn’t you. Well, if you have the courage to come with me, I believe you’ll find material for the biggest scoop of your career.’
‘Where do you want to take me?’
He was having trouble speaking, his gummy mouth was mangling the syllables, yet in the depths of his drunkenness he still seemed somewhat lucid, maybe even completely so. There was defiance in his eyes, perhaps fear. But his pride was stronger than his fear.
‘The third degree?’ he asked disdainfully,
‘I won’t even be questioning you. It’s no longer necessary.’
Parson attempted to rise, falling back twice on the banquette before he succeeded.
‘One moment,’ said Maigret quickly. ‘Are any of your friends in the bar right now? I mean the ones you’re thinking of … I’m asking this for your sake. If there are any, it might be better for you if I leave first and wait for you in a taxi a hundred metres from here, to the left.’
The journalist tried to understand, and failed: his overriding concern was to avoid losing face. He looked into the other room, propping himself up against the door frame.
‘Go on … I’ll follow you.’
And Maigret did not try to determine which of the bar patrons belonged to the gang. It had nothing to do with him. That was Lieutenant Lewis’s business.
Outside, he hailed a taxi, sent it to park at the prearranged place, and took a seat in the back. Five minutes later, hardly staggering at all but forced to stare straight ahead to remain upright, Parson arrived and opened the rear door.
‘Taking me for a one-way ride?’ he asked.
‘The Berwick, please,’ Maigret told the driver.
It wasn’t far. The inspector helped Parson to the elevator. The man’s tired eyes still held the same mix of panic and pride.
‘Is Lieutenant Lewis up there?’
‘Neither him nor anyone from the police.’
Maigret turned on every light in the room. Then, after seating Parson in one corner, he called room service to order a bottle of whisky, glasses, soda water and four bottles of beer. Just before hanging up, he added, ‘And a couple of ham sandwiches, too.’
Not because he was hungry, but because this old habit of his at Quai des Orfèvres had become a kind of ritual.
Parson had collapsed again, as at the Donkey Bar, closing his eyes now and then, drifting briefly into a doze from which the slightest noise startled him awake.
Half past midnight. A quarter to one. The bottles, glasses and tray of sandwiches were lined up on the mantelpiece.
‘Can I drink?’
‘Of course. Stay there. I’ll get it for you.’
Given Parson’s condition, whether he was a bit more or a bit less drunk did not matter at all. Maigret poured him a whisky and soda that the man took from his hand with an astonishment he could not hide.
‘You’re a weird fellow. Damned if I can figure out what you intend to do with me.’
‘Nothing at all.’
The telephone rang. Little John and MacGill were downstairs.
‘Ask those gentlemen to come up.’
And he went to wait for them at the door. He saw them appear at the end of the corridor. Little John in evening dress, tauter and more nervous than ever; his secretary wearing a dinner jacket and a faint smile.
‘Come in, please. Forgive me for having disturbed you, but I believe it was absolutely necessary.’
MacGill was the first to spot the journalist slumped in his armchair, and the start he gave did not escape Maigret.
‘Pay no attention to Parson. I wanted him here for reasons that will be clear to you later. Sit down, gentlemen. I would advise you to remove your coats, because this will doubtless take a while.’
‘May I ask you, inspector—’
‘No, Mr Maura. Not yet.’
And he had about him such an aura of quiet strength that the two men made no protest. Maigret had seated himself at the table on which he had set the telephone and his watch.
‘Please be patient for a few more minutes. You may smoke, of course. I’m sorry that I have no cigars to offer you.’
He was not being flippant, and as the hour approached, his throat slowly tightened, and he puffed rapidly on his pipe.
In spite of all the lights, the room was rather dim, as in all third-rate hotels. In the next room, a couple could be heard getting ready for bed.
Finally, the telephone rang.
‘Hello … Yes … Maigret … Hello, yes, I placed a call to La Bourboule … What? … I’ll hold the line
.’
And keeping the receiver to his ear, he turned to Maura.
‘I’m sorry that your American phones don’t have a second earpiece like those at home, because I would have liked you to be able to hear the entire conversation. I promise to repeat the important parts for you, word for word.
‘Hello! Yes … What? … There’s no answer? … Try again, mademoiselle. Perhaps everyone in the house is still asleep …’
For some unknown reason it moved him to hear the telephone operator in La Bourboule, who for her part was quite nervous about handling a call from New York.
It was seven in the morning over there. Was it sunny? Maigret remembered the post office, across from the spa on the banks of a mountain stream.
‘Hello! Who is this, please? … Good morning, madame! … Forgive me for having awakened you … You were already up? … Would you be kind enough to call your husband to the phone? … I’m sorry, but I am calling from New York and it would be hard for me to call back in half an hour … Wake him up … Yes.’
As if out of delicacy, he avoided looking at the three men he had gathered in his room to overhear this baffling interrogation.
‘Hello! Monsieur Joseph Daumale?’
Little John could not help crossing and uncrossing his legs but gave no other sign of emotion.
‘Maigret speaking … Yes, the Maigret of the Police Judiciaire, that is correct. I hasten to add that I have retired from Quai des Orfèvres and that I am speaking to you as a private citizen … What? … Wait. First tell me where your telephone is in your house … Your study? Upstairs? … One more question. Can you be heard from downstairs or the neighbouring rooms? … That’s right. Close the door. And if you have not already done so, put on a dressing gown.’
He would have bet that the man’s study was done up in the Renaissance style, with massive and well-polished carved furniture, and that the walls were hung with photographs of the various orchestras Joseph Daumale had directed in the small casinos of France.
‘Hello! Hold on while I have another word with the operator on this line … Please be good enough to let us speak privately and to make sure that we are not cut off … Hello! Thank you … Are you there, Monsieur Daumale?’
Did he have a beard now, a moustache? A moustache, almost certainly. Salt and pepper, no doubt. And glasses with thick lenses. Had he had time to put them on when he jumped out of bed?
‘I am going to ask you a question that will seem both absurd and indiscreet, and I ask you to think before you answer. I know that you are a person of sober habits, a responsible family man … What? … You are an honest man?’
Maigret turned to Little John to repeat, without a trace of irony, ‘He says he is an honest man.’
‘I do not doubt that, Monsieur Daumale,’ he continued. ‘Since the matter here is serious, I am confident that you will answer me frankly. When was the last time you were drunk? … Yes, you heard correctly … I said drunk. Really drunk, you understand? Drunk enough to lose your self-control.’
Silence. And Maigret imagined the Joseph of earlier times, as he had invented him while listening to Lucile sift through her memories. He must have put on some weight since then. Perhaps honoured with a decoration? … Could his wife be eavesdropping out on the landing? …
‘You should make sure that no one is listening outside your door … What’s that? … Yes, I’ll wait.’
He heard steps, the sound of the door opening and closing.
‘So! Last July? What? … That was only the third time in your life? I congratulate you.’
Some noise, in the hotel room, over by the mantelpiece. It was Parson, who had gone to pour himself a whisky, knocking the neck of the bottle against the glass with a hesitant hand.
‘Tell me the details, will you? In July, which means in La Bourboule … At the casino, I thought so … Merely by chance, of course … Wait. I’ll help you out here. You were with an American, weren’t you, someone named Parson … You don’t remember his name? That hardly matters. A thin, untidy fellow with whitish-blond hair and yellow teeth … Yes … What’s more, he’s right here with me … What?
‘Calm down, please. I can assure you that you will not have any difficulties because of this.
‘He was at the bar … No. Forgive me if I repeat your responses, but certain people here with me are interested in what you have to say … No, no, the American police are not involved. Have no fear for your position and your family’s peace of mind.’
Maigret’s voice had turned contemptuous and it was almost with complicity that he glanced at Little John, listening with his forehead in one hand, while MacGill toyed nervously with his gold cigarette case.
‘You have no idea how it happened? One never does in such cases. One has a drink, or two, yes … It had been years since you’d had any whisky? Obviously. And you were enjoying talking about New York … Hello! … Tell me, is it sunny, where you are?’
It was ridiculous, but he had been wanting to ask that question from the very beginning of the conversation. As if he needed to see this person in his setting, his own atmosphere.
‘Yes, I understand. Spring comes earlier in France than it does here. You talked a lot about New York and your early life here, didn’t you? J and J … How I learned that isn’t important.
‘And you asked him if he knew a certain Little John … You were very drunk … Yes, perfectly, I know he was the one making you drink. Drunks don’t like to drink alone.
‘You told him that Little John … Oh, but yes, Monsieur Daumale … Really, please … What? You don’t see how I could force you to answer? Let’s say, for example, that tomorrow or the next day a police inspector calls on you armed with a summons in due form to provide evidence in court …
‘Pull yourself together, will you? You’ve caused a great deal of harm. Without meaning to, it’s possible, but you have caused harm all the same.’
His raised his voice, furious, motioning to MacGill to pour him a beer.
‘Don’t tell me you don’t remember. As for Parson, unfortunately, he remembered everything you said. Jessie … What? … The building on 169th Street … Speaking of which, I have bad news for you. Angelino is dead. He was murdered, and in the end you are the one responsible for his death.
‘Stop whimpering, will you?
‘That’s right, sit down if your legs feel wobbly. I’ve got time. The telephone service has been notified not to cut us off. As for who will be paying for the call, we’ll see about that later. Don’t worry, it won’t be you …
‘What? That’s right: say anything you want, I’m listening. Just remember that I’m already well informed and it’s useless for you to lie.
‘You are a miserable wretch, Monsieur Daumale.
‘An honest man, I know, you’ve already said that …’
Three silent men in a dimly lit hotel room. Parson had collapsed once more into his armchair and remained there, eyes half closed, mouth half open, while Little John kept his forehead cradled in his slender white hand and MacGill poured himself a glass of whisky. The white patches of the two shirtfronts, the cuffs, the black of the tailcoat and dinner jacket, and that single voice resounding through the room, now heavy and scornful, now shaking with anger.
‘Talk … You loved her, of course. It was hopeless … Naturally! … I tell you that I do understand and even, if you need to know, that I believe you … Your best friend … Given your life for him.’
What disdain dripped from his words!
‘All weaklings say that and it doesn’t stop them from lashing out. I know
. I know. You didn’t turn on him. You simply took advantage of the situation, didn’t you? … No, she wasn’t the one … Do me a favour, don’t insult her on top of everything. She was a little girl and you were a man.
‘Yes … Maura’s father was at death’s door. I know that. And he left … The two of you came back to 169th Street. She was very unhappy, I can imagine … That he wouldn’t come back? … Who told her that? … Not a chance! You’re the one who put that idea into her head. It shows even in your photo from those days. That’s right, I have it … You don’t any more? Well, I’ll send you a copy of it.
‘Poverty? Didn’t leave any money? How could he have left you any when he had no more than you did?
‘Understandable. You couldn’t do your duo number alone. But you could play the clarinet in cafés, cinemas, in the streets if you had to.
‘You made some money that way? Good for you.
‘Too bad you made something else, too. Love, I mean.
‘Only, you knew perfectly well there was another love involved, two other loves, Jessie’s and your friend’s.
‘And afterwards? Cut it short, Monsieur Daumale. Now you’re writing pulp fiction.
‘More than ten months, I know … It wasn’t his fault if his father, whom they’d thought was near death, was lingering on. Or that he had difficulties later settling the estate.
‘And during this time, you had replaced him.
‘And when the child was born, you were so afraid – because John was saying he would soon return – that you handed him over to Child Welfare.
‘What are you swearing to? … What? … You want to go and check the corridor again? … Be my guest. And drink a glass of water while you’re at it, because I think you need it.’
It was the first time in his life that he was conducting an interrogation five thousand kilometres away, knowing almost nothing of the man he was questioning.
Perspiration was beading on his brow. He had already had two bottles of beer.
Maigret in New York Page 14